


One-Stop Chop Shop

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Amputation, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Codependency, Injury Recovery, Loss of Limbs, Loss of Trust, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Tony gets bitten and accepts his fate. Steve doesn't.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've recently been reminded how much i adore a good zombie au and i'm honestly just a bitch for misery porn. sue me.
> 
> for Reasons, steve is cap but tony is just tony. this is not a "had open heart surgery in an afghan cave"-type tony.
> 
> all mistakes are mine. please heed the tags.

He knew it would happen one day. 

‘One day’, in this equation, was always an undefined variable. Undefined, far away, a distant point in the nebulous future they weren’t even sure to reach. ‘One day’ was a term he didn’t waste a thought on, most days, knowing that entertaining it would mean to lose sight of their single priority: survival.

He knew it would happen. It just wasn’t supposed to happen this soon.

They get overrun, as has been the case many times prior, on their way back. Steve feels as if he should’ve seen it coming a mile away–everything’s been going to smoothly, the streets too quiet, the supplies much too plenty, the buildings devoid of hostiles both living and undead. It only makes sense for whatever cosmic force responsible for the workings of the universe to finally make up for what it’s been sparing them of hardship in the past couple of hours.

The attack is sudden, and it gets ugly just as fast. Steve can’t even contemplate what might’ve encouraged the group to move to this part of town, can’t allow himself to be distracted for even a moment if he wants to retain even the sliver of a chance to get both of them out of this alive.

 _Both_ being the keyword. Getting eaten alive isn’t how Steve wants to go if he has any say in it, but it isn’t himself he’s ultimately worried about–he has had zombies taking considerable chunks out of him before. Point being, despite the horrendousness and the agony of it, he has survived. 

Tony won’t. Not because his endurance doesn’t match Steve’s in every way that matters, but because it is in the nature of the virus to kill and turn any human being that isn’t fortunate enough to carry the fancy all-around vaccine that is Erskine’s serum. 

There is no time for the crippling fear of death, no second to spare to be overwhelmed or thunderstruck. The deer that freezes in the headlights is the one that finds its demise first, long before the starving one or the one slain by predators. Whoever belonged into that category hasn’t seen much of the apocalypse before they became one of its countless casualties, another tragedy forgotten in the masses. 

They’ve never been deer, and this far down the road, Steve and Tony aren’t fazed by much anymore. There’s only a curse muttered through a heavy exhale that steels for what is next, an assessment of the situation with sharp gazes and quick eyes, and then they move in unison to face the incoming threat head-on when it becomes evident there are no other options left.

In a lethal choreography that has become familiar to them throughout the hundreds of times they’ve practiced and perfected it, they’re slashing their way through the hungry mob of clawing fingers, rotten flesh and menacingly clacking teeth. The latter is what he dreads most, the clatter of bone upon bone a spine-chilling sound that will get his blood running cold and his body crowding closer against Tony’s in an immediate, Pavlovian response.

It is second nature now: he will hear it getting closer, and he’ll shove himself between the other man and the closest attacker to shield him from the worst of it. Tony used to protest, vocally and elaborately, but that was before the incident when he almost got bit the first time around. After that, he saw that it was a logical precaution, a safety measure born out of necessity. Steve’s the only one out of the two of them with the privilege to risk a bite or two–or five, or ten. 

They make it out of the crowd, just barely, and hightail it down the street. The next junction comes into view and it’s just as crowded as the one they just escaped from. Steve swears out loud as the group of idling zombies becomes aware of their presence. Tony comes to standing next to him just this moment–Steve curses himself for forgetting himself and the fact that Tony doesn’t have his stamina–still breathing heavily from the exertion of both fight and flight. 

“There,” Tony heaves in a rush of air, having barely gotten a hold of his bearings but already aware of the next problem heading their direction. He’s pointing to the roll-up door of what appears to once have been a body shop on the roadside. 

A faded sign proclaims it _Bob’s Bodyworks_ and the paint on the exterior is chipping, worn down by weather and time. However, all this is secondary information to the one characteristic that catches Steve’s attention and that he knows has made Tony pick this place above all other readily available ones–there are no windows. No windows, and the gate is sturdy, able to hold back a great number of bodies and even more when reinforced from the inside.

Without another word exchanged, they make for the door. Steve levers it open almost effortlessly with the crowbar Tony hands him without having to be told, their work as seamless and efficient as ever even (especially) with a threat breathing down their necks. Being outnumbered and in over their heads has never stopped them before, and it isn’t bound to now.

A sigh of not-quite-relief escapes him as he slides the door close. Steve knows better than to give into that false sense of security; there are still actions to be taken before they get to sit back and wait for the herd to move on. Together, they push shelves and cupboards up against the door, the kind of large, steel furniture you’d expect to find in a place such as this. It couldn’t be more ideal.

Again–and Steve thinks he should’ve seen this too–even in their plight, it appears they’ve been lucky. Things seem to have gone well. They’re okay. There’s the first bang of fists, the screech of nails against the other side of the door. Steve doesn’t flinch. It was to be expected. A few more join in, but not enough that the noise becomes deafening. They’ve had worse.

When the barricades they've put up are to their satisfaction, Steve's gaze involuntarily travels to Tony, taking in his picture more closely than during the perfunctory once-over he allows himself to take immediately whenever they've entered a safe space. Tony's caked in blood just like he is, but that isn't a particularly disturbing sight anymore and he seems fine aside from it. 

Steve leans in, wraps his hand around the other man's jaw to press a kiss to his lips that is as much proof of life as it is a display of affection. It's quick and seemingly lackluster like any of their affections shown out in the streets, because indulging would be a distraction they can't fall prey to. What they lack in passion out here they make up for in the safety of their shelter; it's the one thing Steve spends every day looking forward to. 

Star-studded gazes and sweet nothings whispered against heated skin and swollen lips between messy, open-mouthed tongue-to-tongues. The warmth of their shared bed, entangled limbs, languid kisses and soft touches to counteract the violence. 

When they part, Tony chases after Steve's lips and huffs an exaggerated, annoyed breath when he catches himself. To distract from the slip-up, he sniffs and says, “So much for making it home for dinner.”

“C’mon. Could’ve been worse,” Steve answers. (There is no such thing as a jinx, but later, he’ll think it anyway, that this passing remark is somehow the catalyst of a misfortune that has found them some long minutes prior.)

He puts his gear down by one wall and observes Tony as he throws his own backpack onto the counter at the back, proceeding to browse through the various cupboards and otherwise promising looking furniture. The few scraps he finds he pockets securely in his rucksack, and when he’s done stripping the place for all its worth, he grabs his water bottle to first take a few generous gulps and then clean off the worst of the blood. 

As wasteful as Steve thinks it is–even with the natural spring they’ve discovered in the woods not far from the abandoned cul-de-sac they set up camp in–he has to admit he could do with washing away some of the grime. The gore does get bearable the longer you’re exposed to it, but it sure doesn’t get any prettier.

Finally, he moves to follow Tony’s example–and halts in his movement.

Because there’s Tony, and he’s now frantically scrubbing his forearm as he pours water over it in excessive quantities. 

His eyes have gone wide and dark, whole entire being pulled taut and unmoving, like the eye of the storm or the string of an instrument that's close to ripping clean apart. There’s no way to smell fear, but he feels it clogging up the room nevertheless, a great, invisible entity that takes every hope and spark of joy Steve’s held onto until now and chokes it out, obliterates it in its entirety, cruel and remorseless. 

This is the one day he hoped and prayed would never come. All because he's been inattentive; had he been more mindful, it wouldn't have happened. But no. He failed Tony in this one duty of his that was essential, that came above all else, even before loving him. 

This is it.

Steve knows it long before Tony’s hand stops rubbing at his arm and the deep, reddened teeth marks are fully exposed. Steve knows it long before Tony starts to shake his head, a slow loop that goes left to right and left again in a disbelieving trance. Steve knows it long before Tony’s jaw falls open and he whispers a hoarse, desperate litany of, “No, no, no, no, no,” that drills into his brain and right through every rational thought he’s ever had.

Everything narrows down to the simple reality that _one day_ is here and the realization that he’s never had the power to stop it from coming, no matter how many hits (bites) he took in Tony’s stead, no matter how much he strategized and pushed and fought for the right to patrol the perimeter while Tony remained sheltered in their hideout.

The fear of death is an overpowering one; Steve sees it in Tony's eyes that have possibly gone wet with both his unblinking stare and the understanding of his fate. His lip twitches with unasked questions and pleas aimed at no-one. His hands, deft, calloused and littered with scars testifying to many fights won and gone, are trembling, now that there’s come a battle he’s already lost before it’s even begun. 

The fear of death is an overpowering one; Steve feels it in his own heart, deep and dark and looming. It has been lurking for a long time, and now that the time has come to strike, it doesn’t hold back. It digs into his heart, travels through his veins, lays itself out over his lungs and settles in his gut like lead. Like poison. Steve’s only ever feared death the most when it came in the shape of Tony’s, not his own.

Tony’s death means being left behind. Tony’s death means nothing being left. It means nothing to fight for, nothing to hope for, nothing to wake up to after a nightmare but an even worse one. Tony being gone means Steve will be too, sooner rather than later, first in spirit and eventually in body. 

There is nothing to hold on for except this. Only this. 

Throughout it all, it’s always been him and Tony. Him and Tony throughout the heartbreak, the horror, the tragedy. Him and Tony and something warm between them that thrived and prospered in spite of it all. The both of them, together, proving that there could still be things in this world that are good and right. 

Steve’s never loved anyone or anything as deeply, as entirely as he does this man. It’s the kind of love that makes you vulnerable and stupid and strips you of all defenses. It’s why they were never going to last; why he knew his day would come–because he can’t live without Tony, and he’ll do things for this love he secretly fears at his core.

“Steve.” 

It’s quiet, reverent, but firmer than he expects, cutting through the buzz in his head and the bangs and groans penetrating the door. It’s a sturdy door, but by no means a soundproof one. _They’ll get agitated when he screams,_ Steve thinks.

“I can distract them while you run,” Tony says, voice steely and mouth a hard line that almost doesn’t tremble. He’s always been selfless and stupidly reckless in such a way that comes with that kind of selflessness. Steve has enough of that himself, and he doesn’t even consider the ludicrous offer. 

Tony knows that, too, because he groans in frustration meant to mask his fear and drags a hand over his face to (not so) subtly wipe the tear tracks away even before Steve opens his mouth to decline. “You’ll need to restrain me at least,” he adds, with a finality. 

Steve obliges by the request that is really an order, but not for the reasons Tony thinks. He takes the rope they’ll usually use for climbing and other related purposes and ties him to the shelf at the back wall that’s bolted to the floor–perfect for this use. The counterspace next to it is far from sterile, but beggars can’t be choosers. They’ve exhausted every single other option, and Steve’s going to take his chances; better a slim chance than none at all. 

If it’s the fact he hasn’t made a single sound since this world-shattering revelation or the fact that he has fixed both one of Tony’s arms and legs to the shelf that gives it away, Steve doesn’t know. He just knows he feels Tony’s piercing, already panic-stricken stare boring into his neck even before he’s reached into his bag to pull out the tool he’s searching for. 

There’s rust on the blade, he knows this. Water is no antiseptic, he knows this too. The rags he has with him will barely staunch the worst of the bleeding, he knows this as well. And what he is going to do to Tony, he might never be forgiven for. But he’s going to take that chance happily. A Tony who is furious with him for what he’s done for the rest of his life is better than a Tony whose remaining lifetime is measured in hours. (Can’t win the russian roulette if you don’t give it a shot at all.) 

“Steve, _no_ ,” he implores, and it’s measured, now that Steve’s still across the room, a threat far enough away he can keep the arising emotions at bay for the moment being. Steve is done collecting what he needs, butcher knife in one hand and cloth in the other, flask of ethanol between his teeth. 

Tony wants to back away when he approaches, but the restraints keep him in place, and he frantically moves to loosen them only to find that the elaborate knots Steve tied are in no way to be untied with his shaking fingers in the few seconds he has. Steve puts the materials down carefully and far enough away Tony won’t get any ideas, and then makes to fix the tourniquet to his arm just above the elbow. Tony manages to headbutt him twice until he’s finished, but it appears to do more damage on his side than on Steve’s, who can’t afford to pay the discomfort any mind now that every second counts.

He figures Tony’s given him the benefit of the doubt until the moment he picks up the knife–and he can hear the wooden handle groan with the force of his grip–because it’s only then that his expression truly transforms into one of pure, unadulterated terror, an emotion that washes over Steve colder like the ice once did those many lifetimes ago. 

Tony thrashes against the ropes, going from pulling to glancing between them and Steve’s towering figure with a wide-eyed desperation, a plea that for a moment makes Steve consider thinking his intentions over. But then his gaze falls onto the marks in Tony’s right arm once more, the blood dried and crusted over but poisoning the rest of his body the same as before. He has to. It's the only way.

“I said _no,_ Steve,” Tony presses out through grit teeth, and his voice that has been kept level for so long rises in pitch when Steve grabs a hold of his arm, bruising. “Stop! _Stop!_ I don’t want this! This isn't like in the fucking movies, hell, it didn’t work for Nat, what makes you think it’s going to this time? Huh? It won’t, Steve, it _won’t,_ just let me go in peace. _Please_.”

Steve makes the mistake of pausing for just the fraction of a second, and Tony grabs onto that reaction, white-knuckled and unrelenting. 

“You don’t want me to go out like this, do you? Let’s just– let’s not waste what time we have left. That’s everything I want, Steve. Time with you. Not spending it in agony for some hopeless attempt at rescue. I don’t want that to be my last memory.”

The words hit hard. It takes a moment to remember himself, but Steve gets there. He, too, wants time with Tony. Which is why he is doing this: taking a leap of faith to allow them just the lick of a second chance. 

Nat was a different story. She’d come back to base two hours after she was bitten, and she herself had insisted they go with this last-ditch attempt at saving her life. It was for naught, but they tried at least. Sometimes Steve thinks she knew the odds would've never in a million lifetimes been in her favor but wanted them to believe it, to stay behind knowing they did everything they could. It isn’t a comforting thought.

“You're everything I have,” Steve tells him, pained, and it isn’t what he’s meant to say, but he goes on despite the fact that his voice is already sounding like drowned in tears he hasn’t yet cried. “I’m sorry, Tony. I love you. It’s why I have to try.”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes around nothing, up until Steve takes his arm by the wrist and presses it onto the counter with a crushing force. He thinks he might be breaking something, and it tears him apart on the inside that saving Tony comes with all this added brutality, but there is no other choice when he jerks and flails like this to fight for an escape that won’t ever bear fruit. 

He screams, first in protest. Begging for mercy, which feels wrong and unnatural coming from Tony. “NO! STEVE, STOP! _STOP!_ NO, NO, NO, OH GOD–”

It’s a helpless, livid hysteria that seems like the brain’s natural response to the prospect of losing (part of) a limb, of being taken apart, brutalized so entirely against one’s will. Steve knows it’s something horrible to put a person through, and even if Tony pulls through, the look of utter betrayal in his eyes is something Steve thinks he’ll never be able to fully atone or stop hating himself for.

Steve forces himself not to look away as he brings down the knife. The overcoming of the urge to avert his eyes is almost a physical pain, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to speak of pain right now.

Tony cries out, then, in a bare-bone agony that is less figurative and more horrific for it. Even compared to all that lies in his past already, it might be the rawest expression of torment Steve’s ever witnessed, and with every tendon that gets severed there’s another layer of Tony peeled back, all of him stripped away until this is everything he is, a flesh-and-bone being suffering through something it has lost the words to describe. 

Through the deafening screams, he hears them, more and more zombies gathering outside the door and demanding entrance. The blood makes it worse, Steve knows; they're drawn to it like sharks. It’s welling up in fountains of crimson from Tony’s arm, the same way the tears do from his eyes, so much so he can’t tell where exactly he’s made the previous incisions. 

Nobody inflicts something like this upon someone else and calls it love, do they? Steve isn’t sure when he’s become a monster, but this has to be proof. 

Everything he can do now is end it. Steve puts as much force into the next downward swing as possible; there’s a crunch, something that indicates he must be through the bone now, finally. Tony utters another blood-curdling scream and Steve's never despised himself more than in this very moment, drenched in the blood of the man he loves. Tony’s arm in his grip twitches violently still, his head bowed over the counter and turned away as if he might turn away from the agony and it might stop.

The eighth time he brings the knife down is simultaneously the last. 

Steve flings the severed limb away, shortly thereafter followed by the butcher’s knife. The counter is a single pool of blood creating individual waterfalls where it’s dripping onto the floor, forming another puddle at their feet. Tony’s slumped over, his legs barely keeping him upright, and his body shakes with sharp, hysterical cries and teeth-rattling sobs that have no beginning and no end. It’s a long string of continued misery of Steve’s doing. 

He feels sick, but there is no reason or time to embrace that feeling turning his stomach inside out. He knows how blood smells, how exposed meat looks, the way it feels looking at a bone knowing it isn’t supposed to be in a place you can see it. 

Tony throws up in his stead, what little food they shared emptied out in front of him. Steve swallows the bile back down when he feels it coming, ignoring the burn down his throat. 

“I _hate_ you,” Tony wheezes through another sob, and there is more fervor in it than Steve expects. It’s honest. Stripped to his core components, there would be no way for Tony to lie. He hopes it’s the heat of the moment. He hopes there will be something left to salvage, after this. (But even if Tony does hate him for years to come, it’ll have been worth it, if he’s just alive.) 

Steve pulls himself out of it and scrambles to keep the open wound away from the mess. He gathers up the fabrics he set aside one by one to dress the exposed wound, hopefully staunching the constant flow of blood from the stump until he can get his hands on their medical supplies back home.

“You’re–" A teary hiccup. “You’re a selfish _bastard_ , Steve.” 

Tony has managed to lift and turn his head and regards him with glazed-over eyes, swollen from crying but alight with white-hot fury. Sweaty strands of hair stick to his forehead, and he’s pale as a sheet of paper. It doesn’t come as a surprise that he passes out a moment later.

“I hate you,” he repeats, a hiss this time, and his body slumps, limply dangling from the metal framework of the shelf he's tied to.

“I'll never not love you,” Steve tells his unconscious form, gently undoing the bindings to gather Tony’s limp body in his arms. His pulse is unsurprisingly weakened, but steady enough considering the circumstances.

He allows himself to think it now: this was an act of love. A cruel one, but who’s ever thought love to be tender and selfless? At its core, love is an ugly, feral thing. Selfish, too–Tony isn’t wrong about that. But if he’s lucky, he’ll get the rest of his life to prove to Tony that it can be much more than this. It can be more than this (blood, flesh, bone) because it _is_ more, runs deeper by nature. 

_One day_ is today, but that's alright. 

Steve knew it would come, and he's been preparing for it ever since.

Soon, he'll take Tony and run. And one day, this will just be another among many close brushes with death. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s late when they make it back.

The stains on Steve’s grey sweatshirt are the same color as the wild roses growing in the front yard of the family home they’ve been camping out in for months now. Splotches of vibrant red on a drab canvas. Only the stains aren’t stains anymore; the front and the sleeves are virtually drenched in blood, most of it Tony’s but some his own. 

There’s a throbbing ache in his left shoulder, the fabric torn where a particularly stubborn zombie dug its teeth into his flesh as he made his escape from the body shop, unable to wait out until the group lingering at the door was gone. Tony didn’t, _doesn’t_ have any time to spare, and Steve’ll be damned if he allows death to rip him out of his hands now of all times, by virtue of something so banal as blood loss or poisoning when he’s had to endure the worst of it already. Steve won’t allow it to happen. They made it this far; the suffering will pay off. It _has_ to.

The injured shoulder sends a spike of pain zipping through him with every step he takes toward the back entrance of the house, the front boarded up entirely to hide their presence from the odd traveller crossing through these parts. Steve makes himself embrace the pain, commits the discomfort to memory until a shadow of it lingers. This only scratches the surface of the agony he deserves to have coming his way, he thinks–and feels ashamed of it in the very same moment. 

The belief that there is any way to quantify the cruelty Tony has suffered at his hands is shameful. As if the scars on his body and soul are to be traded as currency, as if Steve can keep score of how many he has yet to pay for and tick them off one by one. 

His anger at himself gets directed outward as he shoves the door open with a momentum that has it shaking in its hinges and banging against the wall behind. Noise is always the first thing that will get you unwanted attention, so Steve reigns himself in. Later, there’ll be time for guilt, for rage and self-loathing. Right now, it’s Tony’s fragile life that demands his attention, and Steve can’t fail him again. Not this time. 

This time, and all the ones to come, he’ll do right by him. Whatever that may mean, in the end. If it means to never even come close to touching Tony again, he’ll do it–with a bleeding heart, but he will do it. As long as Tony’s here, alive and breathing, Steve is going to cope.

Steve lays him out on their bed, located in what was once a living room. It’s a grand room with a high ceiling and a fireplace, which is why they’ve barely set foot in any other part of the house at all. Everything they need is here, and in case of emergency, they’ll be able to gather up all their belongings faster. It’s a survival strategy turned habit. 

He puts down an extra sheet, a clean one, and moves Tony onto it. Next are the supplies, which he assembles around the other man’s unconscious body. His hands tremble when he unwraps the soaked bandages from the stump, a disturbingly detailed record of Tony’s every scream and plea replaying in his mind at the sight of the grueling injury. It’s still oozing blood, too, although the liquid doesn’t come in the copious amounts it did before. Steve cleans it properly this time, water and alcohol, puts antiseptic ointment on and wraps it generously in a few, fresh layers of cloth before elevating the limb with a bunched-up blanket.

Finally, he allows himself to slump on the floor next to Tony’s side of the bed, one arm outstretched so as to allow his fingers to stay pressed against Tony's neck and the steady pulse of blood through the carotid artery underneath. The rhythmic beat against his fingertips lifts an oppressive weight off Steve’s chest, one that he makes sure to put back in its intended place immediately. This is no time for alleviation. 

Tony isn’t out of the woods yet, and whether this last, desperate measure to save him will actually come to fruition is something he’ll only find out in the next few hours. Tony may live. Tony may die, succumb to his injuries. Tony–and this is the one possibility Steve wants to entertain the least–may still be taken by the disease, and he’ll have been right to condemn Steve for torturing him on behalf of a hopeless cause.

And yet.

At the very least he now has a fighting chance. And that’s everything Tony Stark has ever needed.

* * *

When Tony wakes, it’s with a ragged groan that violently rips Steve out of his trance where he’s been sitting next to the bed all these hours, only moving away for a change of clothes and to get a fire started.

The sound causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand and the blood to freeze right there in his veins. He isn’t able to pick out the nuance of it in the first moment; if he were, he would’ve known not to mistake it for a sound of the undead, and he wouldn’t have jumped to his feet and pointed his hunting knife at the man on the bed.

But as it is, there’s a blade pointed at Tony–who is still himself, human and hurting–which is the first object that catches his attention when he blinks his eyes open slowly. He sees the unambiguous shape for what it is, namely a weapon directed at him with a wordless threat. 

It seems to come back to him in a flash. Steve could swear he sees it, how something stirs in the dark pools of his eyes and documents the awakening of the memories in his mind, sudden like lightning that strikes and leaves behind only charred earth. And burnt bridges. 

“N-no,” he rasps, hardly having found his voice. 

It’s a word Steve has often been on the receiving end of coming from Tony, and on any other day, it would lead to a half-hearted argument that ultimately deescalates into bickering for the sake of it. But today is far from an ordinary day, and Tony’s voice has lost any airy lightheartedness it ever carried, familiarity replaced with fear in the face of Steve’s countenance and what it will be forever associated with in his mind.

Steve drops the weapon, the impact upon the hardwood louder than it has any right to be. Tony twitches, but his gaze follows it to the floor and then travels back up to Steve, who does his level best to remain still. 

Tony’s attention shifts, then, and his eyes lock onto his bandaged limb next to him while he chokes on a noise that is both a sob and a laugh. With a strain that makes his features twist into something pained, he lifts the butchered arm and stares. He begins to shake his head as though him rejecting the idea of it could reverse what has been done, his jaw slack, a litany of murmured disbelief tumbling from his lips. 

He begins to pull at the bandages with a fervor and a shaking hand, fingers clawed and movements erratic. Like he needs to see it to believe. Like he needs proof of what his memory tells him Steve has done. 

Squaring his jaw as he approaches, Steve pretends not to see the trepidation that overtakes Tony's expression when he gets close enough to reach out. 

As gently as possible, he pries Tony's hand off the wound dressing. The resistance is minimal, not because Tony doesn't want to escape his hold with all he is, but because he doesn't have the strength to do so. Struggling seems to have drained him of what little energy he had; the fight leaves him, his body slumps and his eyes squeeze close as if he is surrendering to whatever he thinks Steve'll do next.

Steve brings his hand up and presses a kiss to his knuckles, a reminder that despite the cruelty he's inflicted, he is capable of love in the same or an even greater capacity. (He isn't sure whether it's Tony or himself he's reminding.) 

"Why?" 

Eyes brimming with unshed tears and betrayal, Tony is looking at him again. The question is almost inaudible, a whisper laced still with incredulity like he can't believe he has to ask it. 

And again, Steve can only return the truth. 

"It was the only way." 

* * *

The desperate turn cruel, not necessarily because callousness is in their nature, but because they are just that: desperate and thus willing to do anything for their cause.

They've made that observation many times before, bumping into strangers and other groups of survivors that turned from friend to foe at the drop of a hat. It's why it has been only the two of them, Tony and Steve against the living and the dead, for years on end now.

He thought he would be different, when it came down to it. Steve thought he'd hold onto his calm rationale even faced with his greatest nightmare, but it turns out he's still every bit as human and flawed as the rest of them. Maybe more so. After all, the serum enhances everything, good and bad. And Steve's devotion to Tony knows no bounds, but neither does the depravity that comes with it. 

Steve's had a lot of time to think these past days, watching over Tony and pleading with a higher deity that doesn't exist for his recovery. He has come to plenty of realizations–but his burgeoning understanding that his motivations aren't always noble doesn't mean anything to Tony, who doesn't have the privilege to mull over the philosophical intricacies of his rescue. 

Today, he's writhing in the sheets, halfway to delirious, mumbling unintelligible nothings underneath his breath. Steve wishes he could take the pain in his stead. Were it possible, he'd have done it from the very start without hesitation. 

Steve gets another cloth and soaks it in water, swapping it with the one currently placed on Tony's forehead that is warm to the touch. 

He hopes the heightened temperature and the chills that occasionally shake him mean his body is fighting the local infection and not a first sign of sepsis–if it's the latter, there will be nothing for him to do but to watch Tony die.

The wound itself, while leaking discharge and not anywhere near healed, does seem to be improving slowly. Steve won't praise the day before evening comes around (their last outing has taught him not to dare ever again) but he watches every step Tony takes toward betterment with his breath caught in his lungs and hope a gentle nudge in the back of his brain reminding him to breathe again. 

With the used rag, he wipes away the sweat collecting in the hollow of Tony's throat. As he gently turns his head to do the same for the back of his neck, Tony’s hand comes up and locks around his wrist in a grip that is feather-light, barely qualifies as one. 

It's a call for attention and Steve follows it, looks at Tony and everything that he is now: pale skin, sunken cheeks framed by wild stubble and black-blue shadows underneath muddy brown eyes that he thinks were honeycomb and whiskey and all other things alive and vibrant once, but where now instead of color there's only pain. 

"Hurts, Steve," he says, an unspoken plea for a relief that Steve can't give him ringing within the words. He swallows roughly, fingers spasming around Steve's wrist and then falling away. His voice shakes, reduced to the barest wisp of air between teeth, "It hurts so much." 

Steve's heart aches with a force that punches the air out of him as Tony curls back into himself, toward his injured limb. It could be the injury that is torturing him, the phantom pain or both. He's seen it often in the war, way back when, and the distant memories of fellow soldiers torn apart by landmines and cries of agony over extremities that were no longer there feel like a fever dream now. 

He's cursed to watch without the ability to relieve the pain once more, and Tony is no soldier. But because he's the man Steve loves and this is something he _can_ do, Steve lies with him and cradles his head against his chest, stroking the greasy strands of his hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner. 

"I'm sorry," he says, unsure for what he is apologizing. The torture, the betrayal or the refusal to give Tony the dignity of his choice? Can he be truly sorry, when he did what he did with the knowledge that he'd cause this? 

Steve swallows against the tears climbing toward the surface. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and believes it a little less than the first time. Tony lives. How can he be sorry for that? If he hadn't taken action, Tony would have turned days ago. But as it is, he is still here, crying and breathing and in _pain,_ pain like only a living being feels, as far from undead as can be. 

"I'm sorry," he sobs into Tony's hair, because he'd do it all over again if it was to save him. 

* * *

Days pass, and Tony is conscious and lucid sometimes. Most times, he is not. 

The fever finally breaks six days after the incident, and Steve is relieved beyond compare to see that the other symptoms are slowly but surely abating as well. One thing that doesn't go away are the fever dreams, because they're not that–they're nightmares, and the question of what's plaguing him isn't a particularly difficult guessing game. 

Steve hears him cry out his name, some nights, while he throws his head side to side and whimpers and moans and mumbles _no no no no no._ It's only right and just for this to in turn haunt Steve in his sleep, on the rare occasion that he gets some. 

To think that Tony has to relive this experience again and again when he's already suffered through it more times than anyone deserves (once) makes Steve sick to the stomach in a very real way. The urge to throw up is there, although he always manages to stifle it just so. 

Tony doesn't manage to keep anything down until a couple of days in, and even then it's just the smallest of portions of conserved fruit and the like. He almost seems reluctant to eat, which Steve chalks up to his fear of getting sick again until sometime later he catches him squirming on the bed, discomfort written in his pinched expression because of course basic human needs don't change even when you're bed bound. 

As soon as he notices, Steve gets what they'll need and picks Tony up from the bed, because he isn't about to wait and watch for something to happen. Tony can't bear to ask him outright, so he won't make him–even though Steve doesn't see the issue, because this is a biological imperative and there's nothing shameful about it. Steve’s already helped with the other thing, and much sooner at that because keeping him hydrated has been essential; everything Tony managed to do then was hide his face in Steve's shoulder while the rest was taken care of for him. 

Once they're outside at the usual spot, Steve instructs Tony to hold onto him while he takes care of his pants. It isn't so much the nakedness which is the issue, Steve's aware of that; there's nothing he hasn't seen before. The real humiliation, he thinks as they kneel there and he holds Tony so he won't tip over, stems from being reduced to something like this, from the vulnerability and powerlessness that comes with having to accept assistance for this so very basic task. 

It's yet another in a long series of repercussions that Steve knows he may never be fully forgiven for. But since he's already brought this upon Tony, he can at least handle it right. 

In the same way he's been nonchalant about the rest of it, like they've done all this a hundred times before, Steve also doesn't glance at the wet spot Tony's cried into his shirt or acknowledge the mortification coloring his face a dusky red after the deed is done. 

* * *

One evening, just as the sun is setting, Steve returns from the forest nearby, small game slung over his shoulder. 

They set up a couple of traps in the beginning, courtesy of Tony's ingenuity, and the haul is usually much larger than this. It was much larger last month than it was a week ago, too. They might have to move on one of these days, when Tony is better–the city is picked clean for the largest part, and staying too long in one place has never proven to be a smart move. 

Tony is asleep when he arrives, so he makes an effort not to disturb him while he guts and skins the animals–two hares and a squirrel–and roasts the meat over the fire. Half of it serves as his dinner and the rest he saves for later. 

Once he's taken a last look around the property, he makes sure to close the safety lock on the door and push a bookshelf in front like they do every night, and then he crawls into bed next to Tony. His sleep seems not to be fitful for once, breathing deep and expression relaxed. He's sleeping on his side again instead of his back–Steve notes the development with a smile. Carefully, he lodges himself in the space behind Tony and curls an arm around him, making sure not to stir his bad arm that is propped up on his side. 

He doesn’t manage to fall asleep just yet but is content to stay there, close to Tony in the soft glow of the crackling fire. When he closes his eyes, he can _almost_ pretend it’s any other night, long before all this came to pass and they didn’t know any better; when these moments of togetherness were what they fought for, knowing they would return home and be in each other’s arms to forget about the world for a while.

Only almost, though. This could arguably be considered the worst week of Tony’s life, and he does smell the part when Steve buries his nose in his neck and breathes in. No matter how bad, though, it can never be worse than the scent of rotten flesh. Soon, he’ll make sure to help Tony to a proper wash, so they can get rid of at least the temporary marks that have been left.

Blindly, Steve presses his lips against his jaw in the ghost of a kiss, and one to his cheek and another behind his ear. If he were more attentive, he might notice the body next to him shift and then stiffen minimally, but the moment is slow and comfortable and it’s possible he just refuses to acknowledge the change. 

Holding Tony a fraction tighter, he sighs. “I know I was wrong to do it like this,” Steve tells the sleeping man. “But losing you– Just the idea of it, it puts the fear of God in me.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “I would’ve never forgiven myself if you hadn’t made it because I spent too much time arguing with you instead of, of acting. You know I’d never cause you harm if it wasn’t the last and only option. Hell, I’d rather the whole world burns before you do. You know that, don't you? You _have_ to know that.”

Maybe to someone else that would be frightening, carrying a love to this devastating extent, but Tony and he have always been more. And if there’s something Steve won’t ever come to regret, it’s loving wholly and truly.

And then, the body in his arms moves and his voice sounds like he hasn't been asleep for a while now. “I don’t care,” Tony snaps, and there’s some of that fire again. “I just wanted a choice, Steve. You didn’t even think it appropriate to let me get a word in before you put me on the fucking chopping block.” He spits out the last few words, and Steve just about has it in him not to flinch.

It is this moment, too, that the reality of the moment dawns on him: the rigid lines of Tony’s body, the way he has attempted to shuffle away as he spoke, how his voice is fire and ice but his eyes are wet. There’s no space for this kind of comfort between them anymore, because it's no comfort at all when Tony doesn’t want it, can’t even stand having him close. 

The damage is done. Steve backs off, all the way to the outer edge of the other side of the bed, where he'll stay for every night to come. He promised he’d do whatever Tony needed him to, and considering Tony doesn’t trust him to be anywhere near, bringing distance between them is the least he can do.

Steve pretends not to already miss the intimacy and warmth of Tony’s shape nestled alongside his. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling until Tony says, quietly this time, “You could’ve just let me breathe for a full minute, and I might’ve even seen your point.”

He dreams of nothing, that night.

* * *

Next week rolls around, Tony keeps improving, and Steve allows himself to believe in a tomorrow again. 

Everything he already knew has been proven once again: Tony is a fighter, and he defies all odds. The ability to do the impossible is an attribute Tony holds the same way other people possess characteristics like being a bookworm or having a sweet tooth. It makes Steve fall in love with him every day anew, and he aches something fierce with the want to show that affection but holds back. 

With time, Tony can move about on his own again, which gives Steve the freedom to do so as well. He doesn’t dare stray too far from the house, but patrols the surrounding area as usual again and their home feels safer for it. Once he is steady on his feet, there’s nothing Tony insists he can’t do by himself: changing his bandages, cooking their food, and finally, repairing a broken trap that Steve brings from the woods.

Some days, he manages. On others, he squeezes out a request for help between clenched teeth, and will look at the one hand in his lap as though the lack of its sibling is something he has to process all over again.

The broken trap, made from scrap metal that under Tony's hands found purpose again, has a locking mechanism that will usually cause the jaws to snap close but is now malfunctioning. Steve shows it to Tony, and it's clear the man immediately knows what needs fixing because he's quick to assemble all the spare materials and tools he needs. 

The process itself is evidently harder, if only in consequence of Tony lacking a second arm. Usually it would be routine maintenance, but with the way things are, it becomes yet another task he has to re-learn the same as he needed to re-learn how to change clothes and prepare food. This might be the most difficult task yet, and he struggles accordingly: clamps the contraption between his knees to hold it steady, pulls at wires with his teeth, screws a nut in with his mouth. 

Steve’s been watching–discreetly, peeking over the well-worn pages of _An American Tragedy–_ ever since Tony removed a spring and his fingers nearly got caught in the jaws of the thing. God knows another injury is the last thing they need now. Leaving Tony to his own devices requires a lot of willpower, because Steve would much rather do it himself than have his gut twist uncomfortably every time the man gets parts of himself in potentially hazardous places. With proper instructions, Steve could probably get the issue resolved in a minute or two, but that isn’t what this is about anymore, not really.

Not for Tony, whose jaw clenches with the crushing force of grim determination that Steve knows can move mountains. Not for Tony, who has a bright, livid shine in his eyes that means he has something to prove to himself and the world.

All that tension strung so tight finally snaps when the piece of metal he’s been trying to attach breaks loose for the nth time, and he flings the unfinished construction across the room with an angry roar.

Steve can’t even reprimand him for producing so much noise, because Tony looks over and sees him staring, which only adds fuel to the fire. “What’re you looking at?” he snarls, twitching lip hinting at the undoubtedly ugly things he hasn’t yet spoken out loud. Steve isn’t particularly keen to find out what else he might have to say, so he does the smart (cowardly) thing and goes back to reading. 

Come the following day, Tony picks up the trap and all the stray pieces that have broken loose on impact. It’s probably double the work now, but he doesn’t even complain, only sits quietly at his spot by the fireplace and works through the frustration. Steve knows better than to offer his help. 

By the end of the day, it’s good as new. 

Tony, for the first time in a long time, carries just the hint of a smile again, and his stance is infused with a distinct self-assurance it’s been sorely lacking so far.

* * *

For all that there comes a day when Tony's arm doesn't require medical attention anymore, there is nothing to help the psychological wounds heal. 

Although he tries to hide it, he's still noticeably hurting–his body and mind don't quite agree about the state of the limb that isn't anymore, and Tony finds himself in the crossfire most days. He bears it like the rest, with steely resolution that hardens the lines in his skin, and Steve admires him more every day.

Night time is more troubling. When Tony does fall asleep, it isn't restful for either of them. Same as the weeks prior, Steve's sleep is often disrupted by frantic movements and agonized whimpers uttered thanks to the hellscape that is the man's nightmares. 

Seeing as it's a regular occurrence, Steve isn't surprised when he's pulled back into reality on one of these nights–not at first, anyway. His mind is slow to shake off the sleepy haze and Steve painstakingly blinks himself awake only to find Tony's usual spot on the bed unoccupied. 

He would be falling into a minor panic right about now, were it not for the weight on his chest he becomes aware of with a sudden, intense jolt. Tony exhales and lifts his head, coming face to face with Steve who's staring down at him, taken aback. 

Even in the dark, he's able to see the moist gleam in Tony's eyes, and it tells him everything he has to know. 

"Dreamed again," Tony says, confirming what Steve's already suspected. It doesn't explain why in the world they're so close Steve can feel his breath on his skin, though. The exact opposite should be the case: Tony should be all the way across the bed, far away from Steve.

Except Tony's hand fists the front of Steve's shirt, clutching the material in a forceful hold, and his bottom lip trembles as he says, "It was you, that time."

Steve, on account of not knowing what else to say or do, pulls him in close and tucks Tony's head under his chin, hands rubbing up his back. (Or maybe he's doing it just so Tony won't see him squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply so he won't sob in relief.)

"Don't think about it," Steve says, because he's found ignorance to be the only reliable way to stay sane when every day could hypothetically be the day he loses Tony for good. "We're here now and we'll be here tomorrow. That's what matters. Don't– just don't think about anything else." 

There's always going to be another _one day;_ waiting for it your whole life will make you mad. Steve's learned living in the past doesn't help, and it takes no genius to figure out neither does living in the future–maybe that is something Tony has yet to realize, self-proclaimed futurist he once was. 

Steve likes to think he's become a man of the present. Which is why, when Tony's lips are suddenly on his, he doesn't hesitate to relish and make the most of this moment he's been longing for so desperately. 

* * *

It's a while until Steve is fully convinced that Tony can take care of and defend himself outside of the safety of their home, but the day comes eventually. 

They're set to move out at the break of dawn. There's nothing more this city can give them, and Steve is glad to leave it behind for it's become a symbol for everything desperate and greedy he has turned into that he promised himself he never would. 

The memories, on the other hand, are there among supplies and equipment in each of their backpacks, and they'll carry them every step of the way whether they'd like to or not. 

When it's time to leave, Tony is nowhere to be found. Steve scours the entire house, heart racing, blood rushing in his ears, hands shaking and sweat gathering at his temple–and he finds him upstairs, in a smaller bedroom with a great window. He's facing the street and the city beyond, early morning light throwing pale, pastel shadows across his features. 

It's moments like this where he doesn't look changed; at this angle, his bad arm is hidden from Steve's view and the light makes him appear younger, those years he has aged in the past month alone suddenly gone. 

"It's already past seven," Steve says, after a few beats in which Tony hasn't acknowledged his presence. Silence is everything he's met with, so he approaches, coming to a standstill next to him. "We need to go, Tony." 

His profile bears more imperfections up close but to Steve, it only means he's seen more, experienced more, _lived_ through more. With Tony, everything is more.

"I haven't forgiven you, you know?" 

Steve knows. 

But there is more, he can tell by the tone, so he remains silent. Everything he can do is listen, for once, after he has failed to do so before. 

"And I should– I think whatever it says about me that it was never a question of whether I still loved you can't be good, because fact is, you're a real–a real fucking asshole sometimes, Steve, and I. I can't really tell where you draw the line, or–if there even is a line anymore, and it terrifies me."

He watches Tony's gaze drop to his shoes and the man's throat bob as he swallows, working up the courage to utter something else that seems to be too important to be left unspoken. 

"But," he says heavily, and finally turns to meet Steve's eyes, "you're everything I have." 

And what breaks Steve's heart is what remains unsaid: if there was another option, Steve would not be the one he would choose. It hurts but he figures it’s fair. This pain is a price he'll gladly pay in exchange for the privilege to leave this town with Tony by his side. As long as they're together, in any capacity, Steve will make do. 

They've done alright so far and all things considered, this is just another bump in the road–because the reality of the matter is, Tony'd rather be stuck with him than go on on his own, and that is proof enough for Steve that he dreads the prospect of losing him, of being entirely alone with nothing to live or die for just as much as Steve does. 

"Same thing I've been saying," Steve points out. 

Tony doesn't answer but neither does he argue, and that's enough. He might never truly forgive Steve, or trust him again; it's alright, Steve prepared for it. But he thinks–he thinks Tony understands, and that is not to say he anywhere near agrees or thinks that what has been done was justified, but he gets it. 

They're all they have. And if what they have is cruel, is ugly, is barely an echo of what once was pure and good, then that might just be alright. That might just be what they need, to not break in this world. 

When they depart, Steve leaves the butcher's knife in the door. 

> All that we have known will be an echo  
> Of days when love was true  
> Muted voices just beyond  
> The silent surface of what has gone

_alela diane –[take us back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2E2eAp1Xm90&list=PLUWE8NLXJkbE7-C-CdoqknCEmxHHhjAD1&index=2&t=0s)_

**Author's Note:**

> drop me a line if you enjoyed (or just want to scream at me)!


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